Far From the End
by Dazzled-Midnight-Melody
Summary: Upon returning to Hogwarts in a painting of he and his school-aged peers, Yaxley finds himself wishing that his death had been more permanent, only to come face to face with the son of the man that did him in.


Being a painting gave you a lot of room to think; or at least, it would if I hadn't been painted in the companionship of the rest of my Slytherin class. Lucius Malfoy was still insufferable as a painting and if I had to listen to one of them complain about their family's standings after the war one more time, I was going to explode.

So, there it was, I spent my time wandering the castle that contained my memories from boyhood and trying to avoid the little brats that filled it.

"Yaxley," the voice brought my head up as I met the eyes of Horace Slughorn, exactly the man I never wanted to see, "you're a little far from your painting, especially at this time of night..." he said before beginning his never ending drawl about what a talented duelist I had been in my time, and how terrible it was that I had been drawn to such dark arts, blah blah blah, the usual spiel that he'd give every time he saw me out of my painting. _Oh what a shame it was that a prestigious member of his slug club had fallen so greatly! _

I grimaced before interrupting him, "I'll have you know, Slughorn," I said, spitting his name harshly, "that the only shame is how many pathetic mudbloods that you catered towards that I didn't get to kill." His eyes flew wide and he let out a nervous laugh before waving away my comment.

"Oh Yaxley, always the terrifying kidder," he breathed as he wobbled away, his body fat from years of sweets and his livers frequent contact with the contents of his flask.

I shook my head, furiously, trying my hardest not to see red, what an embarrassment he was to the Slytherin house, always inviting scum to his parties, to think that he expected pureblood children to socialize and even _mate _with those of lesser blood was disgusting. As far as I was concerned, Horace Slughorn was as good a mongrel as the rest of the blood traitors.

In my haste to get away from him, I had managed to return to my painting on the third floor, at least, what was left of it. Someone had defaced the painting, no doubt one of those Gryffindor rascals, children of so called "war heroes" who pranced around the school like they were more worthy of attendance than families whose magic traced back for generations!

Someone had jinxed the painting, making all of the current inhabitants wear bright pink robes, and tiaras that were covered in blood red rubies. The castle, that had previously been Hogwarts as viewed from across the lake, was now a giant muggle fun house that appeared to be rapidly deflating. All of this, I viewed from three paintings away, and called out to my former peers, "Can any of you get out of the painting?"

Through the mass of swear words as they desperately tried to emasculate themselves and get away from the giant muggle children's toy, I could hear the quiet voice of Rodolphus Lestrange, "No Yaxley, I'm afraid we can't seem to leave the painting or rid ourselves of these idiotic robes. Please alert the headmistress."

I scowled, but called back my agreement, before turning on my heel and marching through the portraits to the headmasters office. Thankfully, due to my preceding reputation, most of the other inhabitants of portraits left me alone when I trudged through their portraits, except for the occasional old pureblood who stopped me to say hello and commend me on the works I had done in my lifetime. I simply nodded and exchanged a brief smile with these wizards, avoiding talk of my time as a living person with gumption.

When I finally arrived in the headmistress' office, I slipped into Phineus Black's portrait with ease, joining the angular, dark haired, man, in the frame and shaking his hand with a grin.

"Headmistress McGonagall," I said, alerting her to my presence as she turned from a young boy with hair the color of a raging fire to face me, "someone in the castle has defaced my portrait," I said carefully, trying against my ways to speak to the woman with respect.

"Yes, Mister Yaxley, I know," she said in her soft voice, her deep green eyes contrasting greatly against the snowy white hair that she held up in a tight, but intricate, bun. "I have already found the student responsible and plan on punishing him as fit," her voice lay in a way that implied she had no knowledge or care of my life before I became a painting, but her eyes burned under the cool exterior in a way that reminded me of a scorned young woman, the likes of which I had fought against many a time in the war.

I cleared that from my head and turned towards the boy sitting in front of the headmistress' desk, he was lanky as all out, with light brown eyes and freckles that appeared to be never ending, on top of his head was a mess of red hair, and his robes were adorned with a striking lion or red and gold. I took a step back, nearly losing my footing as I realized who this boy was, but how could he be sitting here in front of me not a day older than he was twenty five years ago. "You!"

I reached for my wand, but it surely would be of no use against someone who lay outside the confines of portraiture, "How?" I asked furious and confused as I sought to balance my thoughts.

Minerva McGonagall, the old bat that she was, apparently saw where my thoughts were spoke quickly as her eyes flashed between the two of us. "This is not the man you believe him to be," she said, her tone urgent and slightly dark, "that was his father,"

I did not relax at all as I continued to stare at the boy in front of me, "Mr. Weasley here seemed to have thought that he was doing his deceased uncle a service, by vandalizing your portrait," McGonagall said, in slight amusement, but yet all the serious that she usually had, "I believe Professor Clemense can fix the painting, and Mr. Weasley here will be assisting her,"

Just then, the boy let out a loud cry of disagreement, clearly outraged that he would have to_ lower himself_ to going near the Slytherin painting for a second time. "Enough, Mr. Weasley, you have done the crime and as they say, you _will_ do the time, I think you've done your part Yaxley," she dismissed us both, but I lingered

I frowned from Phineus' portrait and tried to imagine this delinquent as anyone other than the man who had assisted in my death. _My death_, what a joke, I was taken down by a blood traitor that was barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, let alone take on and defeat one of the greatest duelists that the school had ever seen. I could still see the scene, if I thought back hard enough, I could feel my heart in my ears as I wildly fought, spewing curses as easy as saying hello. I wasn't fast enough, I was too deep in the madness of it all to realize what that Weasley boy was doing, when he took me down. I struggled to clear my mind as I made the long walk back to my painting

When I made it back to the portrait, I saw that nearly every member of our class had been released from the jinx, although a few were still in line, comically, Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Black nee Lestrange stood in their princess gowns, looks of contempt covering their expressions.

"Yes, yes, let's hurry this up," Bellatrix snarled at the witch and Weasley boy who were doing what I assumed to be their best to fix the image. Bellatrix's voice sounded so young, of course it did, the painting was of us all before the war, and of course many sported dark marks at this point, but we all lacked the strain that had been placed on us in Azkaban or the madness that we had sunk into after the murder of so many- such battle scars were to be expected of course, for good works are often harmful to the workers, but it was strange none the less.

Bellatrix seemed to be bothered by her voice as well, as she cackled wickedly, trying to maintain a sense of who her mind told her that she was. We all did that, struggled between what we knew we were and how we were portrayed. On many occasions, I had wished that someone might tear our painting to shreds and leave it discarded somewhere where none would tread to retrieve it, poison ivy or the like. At least such a fate would leave my tired soul to rest, would let me sleep after so many years of mindless wandering in the body of my youth. I wanted to die, I wanted it to be real, and perhaps so did my peers. We didn't speak of the weakness.

I watched from afar as the Weasley boy and the professor finished up their work and wondered silently, if the boy could do all of that, could he figure out a way to remove me from the portrait? I shook the thought away and sulked back into the frame.

"Thanks," Rodolphus said, as he patted me on the back. I smirked in response before challenging he and Lucius to a duel, lightly. I was back.

**I know, I know, they never talked; Fred II and Yaxley that is, but I think that was important in te grander scheme of things. Perhaps I'll carry this on one day, but I think it works well as a one-shot.**


End file.
